My Brother's Keeper
by youngandj
Summary: Sequel to "The Not So Suite Life of Zack." Cody can neither accept nor adequately cope with his past. He has become exceedingly cynical of the world he used to love, all the while effortlessly pushing Zack further away from his mind.
1. Prologue

A/N: This story takes place after the events that occurred in "The Not So Suite Life of Zack." Rated M for mention of substance use, profanity, sexual references, and other adult themes.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

- Prologue -

So he's dead. So I've heard.  
So I've brooded. So I've cared.  
So I've loved. So I've lost.  
Let my life go on from there.  
So I've wondered. So I've waited.  
So I've tried. So I've failed.  
So I've pretended. So I've felt.  
Let my life go on from there.  
So I've needed. So I've taken.  
So I've received. So I've neglected.  
So I've abandoned. So I've believed.  
Let my life go on as expected.  
So we're nothing. So we're something  
So we're trying. So we've tried.  
So we've lived. So we've paused.  
Let my wounds heal in time.  
So we've hoped. So we've dreamed.  
So we've gained. So we're last.  
So we've moved. So we've been.  
Let my life move from the past.  
So I've fallen. So I've given.  
So I've broken. So I've cried.  
So he's gone. So I've heard.  
Let my life go on tonight.


	2. Chapter 1

- Chapter 1 -

It felt like hours were passing by me as I read this poem. It wasn't meant for my eyes, believe me, but when a piece of paper slipped out of Maddie's pocket unseen, I felt too intrigued to give it up. I read it after she left, and my heart ached uncontrollably, unreasonably. I mean, after all that had happened, I didn't think I was expected to have any right to feel this way. Every word screamed to me the bitterness and melancholy, the greatest burden that now rests on Maddie's shoulders that was never meant for her; it was supposed to be mine alone to carry. When I think of this, I lose control of my senses, my life, and everything around me.

I don't really know how I got here. It's a strange thing, when I think about it, because I'm usually more aware of my surroundings. But these past years have been difficult, to say the least. I've lost track of time, and to be completely honest, that fact alone terrifies me beyond understanding.

It wasn't always like this. I wasn't always this person I am now. My brother... well, there's nothing really left to say about him. He's nothing more than a stranger to me. It's been that way for years, and the distant air between us was just something I grew accustomed to due to his prolonged absence. And illness. Mom doesn't like to hear that word associated with him. She doesn't like it when I call him pathetic and desperate behind his back, when I tried to donate his bed to charity, and when I used the back of his posters as scratch paper. And she most definitely doesn't like it when I toss and turn at night, whispering _I don't forgive you, I don't forgive you,_ but I do it all the same.

To some firm belief of mine set in my earlier days, in some deep part of me, I know that it shouldn't have had to happen this way. I don't say it out of love or some misplaced forgiveness deep inside my soul; there is nothing to forgive, so Mom must be suffering from some post traumatic stress because I rarely dream at night, and I don't cry about lost things. I am in control. I am strong and in control. I have to be.


	3. Chapter 2

- Chapter 2 -

Sometimes there are these moments when I am walking or looking at something, and I start daydreaming for no apparent reason. My mind takes me back to short flashbacks of my childhood, all of the memories unrelated to each other and never making any sense. It's the strangest thing. Doctors have told me it may be trauma, but that's a ridiculous notion I can hardly fathom. Trauma for what? It's been months. My grades can't possibly be any better. I can walk into class buck naked every morning, and I'll still be guaranteed valedictorian this year like it was written in my destiny. Yet I'm constantly studying. I feel that I'm forced to do this to occupy my time, regardless of what exactly I'm feeling at the moment. It's taking over my life and my senior year, and I'm not complaining. In fact, I welcome it with open arms. I embrace it; to me, it's nothing more than another challenge. So why does everyone seem so worried about me? They look at my books and papers and shake their heads. Why are you doing this to yourself, they ask me. It's not healthy. Are you fucking kidding me? You think health is the first thing on my mind? I'm going to Yale. I'm not going to waste my time in this cramped quarter with depression and anxiety on my mind like every other person here.

Maddie won't shut the hell up. It's like she's attached to my hip or something, and it's getting on my nerves. She's always over at my suite trying to feed me, clothe me, bathe me, nagging me to take care of myself. I look her straight in the eye and tell her I'm not a kid anymore, and she doesn't hear a single word I'm saying. I suppose she's grieving, but who's to blame here? If it weren't for her... well, that wouldn't be entirely fair. Even when I can admit that my world is dissolving into something completely meaningless, I should retain a little amount of politeness out of respect for my brother. My poor, lost brother. Stumbling in and out life like a wayward drunkard. Look at what he's been reduced to in the pictures of my mind. Am I supposed to mourn him like the rest of the world? Who did we lose, a goddamn martyr? Face it, people: he was an immature, irresponsible, over-obsessed loser. I've quit pretending that he was that significant in my life, so why can't all of these idiots do the same? I don't see the point in crying over spilled milk.

Mom is not any better than Maddie. She is always on my case over every little thing as if she's trying to compensate for all that was lost between her and Zack. And Dad, well, he's the hero of every story, isn't he? The minute Zack's heart stopped, he comes swooping down with the news. And guess what? He's here every day now. Every. Day. He likes to believe he's making progress with his communication skills, and I let him pretend that he's really my father. He's no different from Zack. As of a matter of fact, some days I see him clearly and am startled to have not noticed the striking resemblance before. It's almost as if the universe had decided against delivering a perfectly normal father to these set of twins. No, instead, what we have here is the worst-case scenario: a complete, nonsensical idiot. A cheater, I might have taken. An abuser, I would have matched. Even a liar, I could've laughed off of. But an idiot such as himself? _Excuse me_, the rock star?

Who does he think he is? At least in high school he was a track runner, a fast and agile speeder who was strong in body and mind. Then he started a little band, one of those minor hobbies people outgrow in time. But Dad didn't outgrow it, not one tiny aspect of it. He thinks it's clever to bask in the glow of the spotlight, wondering which girl would catch his fancy that he could take home. You think I don't see right through you, Dad? Who do you think you are? You think you're a man, now that you're all grown up and have your own house? You think you can just do whatever it is you want to, despite the fact that you have a family that you left behind? Oh, you didn't understand that part? Let me clarify for you in terms even you would find it difficult not to understand: you left your wife and two babies, breathing, living entities. What makes you think you're even wanted back home at all? Even at your age, you still choose to duck and dodge, to escape, isn't that right? And you dare to say you don't know what had gotten into Zack? Don't fucking lie, Dad. Remember, you were a track star back in your days; you know all about running. Don't forget that the world is watching.

Jesus, I don't know what I'm being so emotional for. It's not like any of this matters anymore. I'm eighteen years old, and I still don't know who the hell I am. I do know everything I'm not, however: I'm not nice, not satisfied, not awake, not strong, not fast, not smart. Contrary to popular belief, I am not, in fact, smart. I suppose it would surprise people if I came out into the open like that, but their reactions are no concern of mine. I'm just tired. All the time I feel weary, but sleep won't let me in, not even as a prisoner. It's these times I've come to loathe. This feeling of helplessness burrows deep into my chest and pains me to the tiny fragments of my bones. I don't know what I've become.

So I study. I crack open the books, and I try to erase everything out of my mind. Conveniently, Dad always seems to pick this exact moment to burst into the room. He squints through the darkness at my small desk lamp, the only bright thing in the entire room, and frowns. He says, "Codester, what's with the dark? How's about some light in here?" I ignore him, like I always do, and just bury my head deeper into my studies. He eventually leaves, but one night he lingered. I heard him clear his throat in a noisy process, and I could hear what sounded like sandpaper rubbing together. It must have been his shaking hands, the nervous trait of the common stoner. I mean father. Brother? I mean, I don't know what I mean.

What he said to me that one night, I'll never forget. It's not the advice I was looking for or the counsel I needed as judgment, but the words bit into my heart. He said, "Cody, it's not your fault." I distinctly remember rising from my chair and staring him down with all my might that a grown boy can do. I snapped harshly, "What stupid nonsense. How can you say that? _Of course_ it's not my fault. I didn't do anything." Dad nodded faintly and slipped in a quick good night before leaving the room. I stood there for I don't know how long. The words latched onto every blink, every breath. I felt the darkness consuming me, and I stood still. I deserved every wretched moment of torture, of pain, of anger and worry. The fault is not mine to bear alone. I did not send that idiot in the wrong direction to be trampled by all the wrong things. How am I _always_ expected to be my brother's keeper? I don't have time to shirk my responsibilities. Studying is my top priority. If I want to be half the man I've always wished I could, I need to do what is right for _me_. Zack is not a part of that. He's a big boy, isn't he? He can take care of himself, can't he? _Can't he?_

To be honest, I wasn't even fully aware of how dire this whole situation turned out to be. I was inside studying while he was outside partying. What could I have possibly done to prevent this? And it didn't hurt me at all. It had no effect on me whatsoever. Then again, perhaps if I did give him a slight suggestion... no. No, I did nothing. I merely stood back and watched it happen, never saying a word. I let it happen. I could've have stopped it. I could've told him it bothered me. He would've stopped for me in a heartbeat if I had only let him know how much it hurt me to see him do that to himself.

No, I did absolutely nothing.


	4. Chapter 3

- Chapter 3 -

It's noon on Saturday when I awake in my lonely bed. I rub my eyes and stretch out my arms with a yawn. I sit upright and look at the empty space in front of me, the picture that jolts me awake like coffee never could. When I slightly lift one blind from my window, a sharp beam of sunlight streams through instantly that momentarily blinds me in one eye. This is my daily morning routine on days without school, even when it's hardly appropriate to call this time of day morning. At least, if nothing else, it's mourning to me. Good mourning.

Mom is gone, as usual. I don't know where she is always running off to, but lately I've stopped asking questions. Dad is nowhere to be found. Not unusual in the slightest, I suppose. Like father, like son. By son, I mean his other son. I don't mind being alone; I've been alone for a long time now, so it doesn't make any difference to me anymore. I check my phone and see seven missed calls from Tapeworm. Seven. That's not strange at all. When I call him back, he sounds flustered. He mumbles something about a math exam. I mumble something about studying. We keep playing this little game with each other, pretending we really give a shit about life in this world.

To be brutally honest, I feel a little sorry for the guy. Hard to believe, but Tape is a genuinely intelligent and curious student, not at all the incoherent idiot he was quite often mistaken for in the beginning. He wants to be an engineer when he's older and is going to Stanford all the way west in California to prove it to the world. So it's extremely ironic that the valedictorian I'm competing against for presenting a speech during the graduation ceremony is the most serious stoner I've ever chanced to encounter. When I say serious, I mean straight fucked three ways to Arkansas serious. How he managed to keep a straight A mark is beyond me. Maybe all those rumors of drugs enhancing IQ are true, maybe not. What I do know for certain is that Tape's always faded. It bugs me something awful to know when his eyes are clouded over and his speech is slurred that he's not the slightest bit interested in slowing down. What can I do? He won't listen to me, Warren, or Max. Max once suggested busting him to the police, but that's not something I'll ever be able to face down in the morning.

Poor Tape. He's in the same situation as Zack, and I'm still following the same pattern. When I hung up with him on the phone, he called me right back to confirm that there will be a math exam on Monday. Having already known this, I agree sympathetically. He asks me if I would like to join him on a capitalistic venture with reaping benefits. This is his way of asking me if I would like to deal. No, I always say. I don't know what's wrong with you, but don't ask me these stupid questions. The words I say never hurt his feelings, even when I mean every cursed syllable. Nothing seems to affect him, so I never know if that's really him or if he's just putting up a good front like most people I know. Or don't know, that is. Tape lets people walk all over him as if he's nothing more than a mere throw rug. I know that the valedictorian speech was always mine to begin with and that he'd never fight for it. He's stuck in his own shit and booze, so what can I do?

Sometimes I wish I could be a man. I wish I could stand up and tell him what I think and then see where fate takes me. Then I hate myself for being such a coward, wishing for things that won't change. My heart aches because despite how much I would never admit it to any breathing soul, I could never be half the man my brother was. Regardless of the countless mistakes he had made and his selfishness, at least he accounted for something; at least he was a man in some sense of the word. Me, I'm just one of those people who live by the book. I'll never be free.

There's a series of raps on the door. I'm surprised; who comes to this room at noon on a Saturday? Certainly not any of my friends, or whatever else I can call them. They know better than that. As I hurry to a set of drawers to put on a clean shirt, the knocks become louder and faster. What impatience. I end up having to answer the door half-dressed. Surprise, surprise, it's Maddie. At first she seems to be relaxed and smiling until her eyes size me down to my stomach. A deep frown replaces her original expression as she steps forward.

"You've lost so much weight," she says matter-of-factly. So I did. She comes in and is still proportionately sizing me up. She is much shorter than I thought she was. I am about half a head taller than her, which is a funny thing. She used to baby my brother and me when we were younger, but now she has to look up in my eyes to talk to me. She looks up at me then and says, "We need to talk." She gestures me to sit down beside her at the couch and takes my hand in hers. "Cody, what's happened to you?" There is real concern in her eyes and in her tone of voice. I say nothing. She continues as if she hadn't noticed my silence or saw no need of my participation, "You used to be such a bright kid, full of excitement for learning and gaining knowledge. Now you're like a dead thing. Your mom tells me you hardly ever see the time of day."

Clearly aggravated, I shake my head and reply, "She should learn to mind her own business. I'm doing perfectly fine. I'm going to Yale, aren't I?" Maddie's frown deepens considerably as she says, "No, you're not perfectly fine. You stay cooped up in your room studying, and if not studying, then sleeping or staring mindlessly into space. What's the matter with you? Why aren't you celebrating your senior year with your friends?" I stare incredulously at her. I open my mouth and close it before I allow myself to release every bent emotion inside of me. It's not worth it, I decide. I am strong. I am in control.

She notices the tension and demands I say whatever it is I want to say. I get up from the bench and ask her, "Did you come here to pile all your bullshit on me? What exactly is it that you want from me?" Maddie looks suddenly tired as she says, "There's really no need to use profanity." I laugh at her. She stands up with me and takes my fallen hand again. "I need you to know that you're better than this. Just because Zack-" Just at the mention of his name, I explode out of control like it was a trigger. "What would you know anything about me?" My voice feels raw. "Just because you knew my brother, does that make you fucking special? If you hadn't noticed, he lost himself the two years you were gone! You don't think you were partially responsible for his- for his-?" My voice breaks, unintentionally. I instantly whirl around, unable to face her again.

I grit my teeth and refuse to let any other emotion emit through my face. I inhale, exhale, and say in a sharp voice, "Forget it. Just go." I hear her say in the smallest whisper as if she were light-years away from me instead of a foot, "It's okay to be angry at me. I deserve every bit of it." I suppose I should take her acknowledgment as satisfying news that she was aware of the extent of the damage she caused, but I only scoff bitterly. I didn't turn around again until I heard soft footsteps and the shut of the door. Sometimes, I don't understand why I don't question her motives. Or her nerve. The way she constantly brings up fragments of abandoned memories always gets at me. She seems to be able to pinpoint my weaknesses and never lets me forget any of them.

Due to my rising fury, I decide against taking refuge in this small room on a good day like this. In fifteen minutes, I'm on the elevator down. Mr. Moseby gives me a look of concern as I pass by him, but he doesn't even address me. Norman the doorman opens the door for me, but there is that same hesitation, that same unease in the atmosphere. As I walk down the crowded streets of Boston, I try to recall everybody's social calendar. I know for a given fact that Tape is getting loaded, whether or not if it's by his doing; his phone calls were only confirmation that I am indeed right. Warren's at his dad's house, like he is every weekend. His parents had split up a year ago over unresolved financial issues, and they've been wrestling over Warren since. Max, what is she doing these days?

Only a few blocks away I see noticeable pigtails in the window of some burger joint. It can't be anyone else. As soon as I walk in, I could feel her grating eyes blazing through me. She gives me one of those long looks that girls are so notorious for until she wraps me in a tight hug. Her hand traces down my arm until she fingers the white paper link around my left wrist. It was something I had been trying to keep my mind off of after all these months, but it's almost as if that damn thing is permanently attached to my skin.

"When will you be free?" she asks me.


	5. Chapter 4

- Chapter 4 -

Sometimes, I can hardly imagine myself in my current state of being. I don't know if it's because of my sensitivity or my anger that prevents me from expressing weakness, but trying to be emotionless is what my life revolves around. And it's not anything close to being as easy as it sounds, but I've done right so far. However, there are those instances on rare occasion that I slip up and let my true nature be exposed; this is always dangerous, especially for someone like me. I don't know why it happened, but it was bad right from the start.

I suppose I was feeling exceptionally down one night and had been walking – no, _staggering_ – around the busy streets, mumbling some unintelligible jumble of words that even Tape began to grow distressed. I had called him up for company, though I can't remember why now. I had been staring at the blur of cars passing me by for at least twenty minutes until I heard a voice behind me, calling out to me to step away. The last thing I remember was blocking out the voice and just trying to focus on the hue of colors in front of me intermingling, clashing violently together for vitality. _My_ vitality. And how much I wanted to be a part of it. The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital cot with tubes strapped to my body and machines hooked up everywhere. A few weeks later. Evidently, as soon as my head made contact with perhaps several cars' metal bodies I got an immediate intensifying concussion and collapsed into a coma. Recovery took months. I had broken both legs, one in several different places. In addition, I had one severely fractured arm and a possibility of brain damage due to injuries sustained by my head.

And God forbid if anyone would ever let me forget, least of all Maddie. In fact, because of her insistence that I stay bedridden until I'm comfortable with walking again, I hadn't been able to see actual sunlight in months. Five, to be exact. So this bullshit about her wanting me to go outside was exactly that: bullshit. I wasn't even allowed to go to _school_. I had to arrange for Warren or any of my other classmates to drop my homework and reading assignments off at the front desk, in which by then Mr. Moseby would have a bellhop deliver it to my front door. It seemed as though I had the black plague, and even standing within a hundred-feet radius would be fatally contagious. I guess I have some sort of death wish now, don't I?

When I had the sudden notion to leave the hotel, Max had not been as surprised as I thought she would be. Though Boston is not at all a small city, Zack had made us Martins quite famous around our friends and family. So I'm always under the spotlight, and if an alleged suicide attack isn't worthy of news, then nothing is. I'm not sure what Max thinks of me anymore. So when she asked me when I'd be free, I didn't know what she meant. All I knew is that she felt so small in my arms, and her hands clasping my back sent me a chilling sensation down my spine. She led me out of the fast food restaurant, and we walked to the park hand in hand. Before my accident, back when it was just me and her, we always used to hold hands. But after Zack came home for good, she reached for my hand less and less as if she were maintaining her boundaries.

I always knew she had a thing for Zack, but I never minded. She was understanding, a completely different species compared to my mother, and compassionate. She was always harping on me to smile more often, to get out of my stuffy room and play. We sit on a bench, and she asks me, "What was it?" At first I was confused and began to say something until she cuts me off a second later. Her brows furrow and she takes both my hands in hers. "Five months," she says, not asks. I reply, "I didn't see the cars." That was the truth, for the most part. I saw the colors, but I didn't see any definite object that I believed would put me in harm's way. Or is that what I just wanted to believe? Max's eyes narrow as if she heard my unspoken question, and her grip on my hands tighten. She says slowly in the disapproving tone I've grown all too accustomed to, "Or you just didn't want to." I could feel my lips hardening into a line and a tight voice, that didn't sound like mine at all, respond, "It was an accident. It wasn't something I went out of my way for." The way she shook her head, I could tell that this was not something she wanted to hear. She snaps angrily, "What's the matter with you?"

How do I answer a question like that? I pull my hands from hers, and her facial expression softens considerably at the release. She says, "You've changed," the understatement of the century. I laugh, it sounding harsher than it should've been, and reply, "Don't we all." She continues as if I hadn't spoken, "And not in the way you would expect either. You're just constantly angry, all the time. But instead of fixing whatever that's bugging you, you just let your anger wash all over you." That wasn't fair, and I was disappointed that she hadn't gone down to the root of the problem. I assumed that Zack had relied solely on her for advice and wisdom during the short time he had spent recovering. "I'm not the same underneath," I insist, in vain. She raises an eyebrow at this comment and remarks thoughtfully, "That, you're not. Why would you want to be anyone else but yourself?" I look away. After a prolonged silence, she sighs heavily. The sight and sound of that sigh saddens me deeply for inexplicable reasons. She is within every legitimate right to be upset.

"I'm sorry," I offer, though I'm not sure I can weigh the last word down with effort. Facing straight ahead, she says in a small voice, "You're smart. Believe me, I know. But you can be a real case sometimes, so selfish, so like him. It's almost as if he's still here." I smirk then and not, rather casually, "You must've loved him a great deal." She scoffs, and I see her hands clench into small fists on her lap. "Loved him? That boy who wasted his life on drugs and alcohol without a single hesitant thought?" She inhales sharply, then exhales. "He lived his life on the edge, never knowing when he would have to go. I hate that kind of uncertainty, and I always wondered what would become of him. Nothing, isn't that right? You, at least you know where you're going." I don't know if I should take this as a compliment or an insult of sorts. What was she saying, exactly? Despite the fact that she spoke so condescendingly of Zack, I notice the way her whole body tensed up, how her face remained taut and under control and her eyes burning with intensity when she finally turns my way. She says in that soft way of hers, "I know it must've torn you pretty badly, the way it tore at me too." She again looks away. "I'm just lost." Lost. I wasn't surprised. I say nothing in response to this because I don't know how else to comfort her in words. They never did me any good, anyway. Words without solace aren't much consolations. Instead, I opt to put my arm around her, and she opts to lean in.

That day she confessed to me a secret underneath the chestnut tree: we all need to be saved sometimes. It was a stunning reality check for me. I had been angry for an entire year. I had put the blame on everyone: on Zack, on Mom, on Maddie, and on me, even when I knew inside that it was nobody's fault but that of fate's. I hated Zack for leaving me alone and hated Mom for not understanding my anger. I hated Maddie – no, I was downright _jealous _of her. I was jealous that she soaked up all that precious time with my brother, time that could never be brought back. I hated how he had confided in her alone, above all else, how he had let his guard down to let her in. Even Max didn't get that kind of treatment. Never me. It had never made sense to me. I was his brother, his _twin_ for crying out loud, and yet I was still locked out in the cold. It broke my heart, though I'd sooner face death than admit a weakness like that. It had really fucked me over beyond belief and comprehension.

Zack and I just keep pushing each other away, even after he's long gone. It's so frustrating, the fact that I don't really understand as much as I want to. As much as I need to. I've tried to forget him more times than I count. I dream of him, anyway.

He says to me, _Scito te ipsum_. Know yourself. If only it were that easy, I'd fly away to where you are.


	6. Chapter 5

- Chapter 5 -

In one night my life changes from its bleak, weary existence to one with some meaning. To Max, I am evidently too fragile to walk alone in this world. So she walks with me. My anger subsides shortly in her presence, but I know that this is enough. I know for certain that it is not love I am seeking, for better men than me have tried to win her hand and failed. I find her company reassuring, that I am not as pretentious as I fear I am. It's like I'm constantly improving for her to find me in favor. I don't know if that's the way these things work, but that's really all I've got. Dependence. Weaknesses. God, I don't know what else to do. I need her, especially now since Maddie will not stop griping about everything going wrong with my life. I've still got an entire summer to deal with that blond, vindictive leech, and I'm not sure if I can guarantee a docile me by the end of it all. Apparently, my frail mother has appointed her my temporary guardian in her absence. When she's not in school, she's here; when she's there, she sends a letter every day. Every. Day.

This correspondence, she believes, is something that's supposed to open up my horizons, so to speak. In the real world, I know people call them "shortsighted limitations." I haven't read a single letter as of yet, so I don't really know if it's capable of doing just that. I avoid her as if she is a viral disease. When she shows up at my door front, much to her dismay, she'd find the entire suit empty and billowing breeze through an open window (why are there always open windows billowing breezes?). Once, I left a stack of her letters on the kitchen table because I know Mom asks her to check up on me every now and then. When I returned from wherever I was, she had never looked more hurt in my life. I almost wanted to apologize profusely right then and there, but my temper kept me in check. She hadn't moved for a few minutes, wondering what on earth could she justifiably say to me. Or could I have been wrong? Had she just been waiting for me to say something? I realized that I could've scoffed in her face, could've spit or laughed, and she would've stayed to soak up every word. That kind of power, undeniably alluring, was not something I planned on wielding. If nothing else, it only strengthened the alleged bond between us, and the last thing I wanted was Maddie on my tail for the rest of my life. That day, I only asked for the spare suite key Mom had given her which she handed it over without so much as a word in between. She had looked so helpless then, and it almost broke me in two. Almost. I returned every letter she ever sent me back to Princeton. I didn't have the heart to give it to her in person.

Surprisingly, I didn't ask her to stop. I was disdained that she had enough patience to endure all my attempts at separation. So I know for certain that at any first sight of an obstacle, I'd keep pushing my limits, wondering how far I can go. How far Maddie can go. It's not right, but since when has my life ever veered in that kind of direction? Even now, it's only for the moment. For someone who hates uncertainty, I spend quite a lot of misguided time in temporary leisure. One being the utmost priority of stress relieving, though I'm sure that's a matter of opinion. It's these damn women who really try to do me in. Ever since Tape introduced me to a couple of low-down parties, I've been the typical inebriated player. Unbelievably so, and Max has often pointed out the dangers for that. But the truth of the matter is, I'm not much for sleeping around. I'm still a virgin, after all, so maybe it's because I'm new to all this, but I had no idea that talking usually goes as far as to leading me into a vacant bedroom. So far I've successfully evaded all but one who I locked into a closet before making a run for it.

This kind of lifestyle isn't really my scene. I usually tend to make up an excuse for missing out, something that I understand is considered ridiculously queer. I suppose so. If not being with a girl can lead to being labeled as _different_, than about eighty percent of the male population has followed suit, embarrassingly so. I haven't thought much about girls except Max and Maddie, and I can't imagine anything as alarmingly close to whatever the connection forces me to do. So one night after Max walked with me to my suite, I don't know what possessed me to press her against the wall and penetrate her mouth like that. Though she stiffened at first touch and almost recoiled, as I secretly feared, she pressed back, and I was all hands. And because we were outside the hall where anyone could spot us, I lifted her light body up and carried her to my bedroom. She grinded against me, her nimble hands running through my coarse hair, her legs entangled with mine. She kissed me so sweetly, so gently, that I was mesmerized.

I didn't know how to ask if this was all new to her too, because I suppose discussion isn't really appropriate while disrobing. At the last possible moment, the doorbell rang. I groaned and forced myself to the door. Of course it was Maddie. I opened the door slightly, holding the space with my foot. She looked at me impatiently and asked if she could be let in. Then she noticed how obviously half – or not at all – dressed I was. I retorted, "I'm busy, as you can see. Don't you have your own house to go to or school, if nowhere else?" She forced open the door, such ferocious intensity from a small thing, and Max chose that exact moment to reappear behind me clad only in undergarments. I don't know whose face was more red, that of Max or Maddie's. Max desperately attempted to dive behind the living room couch, and Maddie turned away so sharply, her head might've swiveled off her stub of a neck if she wasn't careful. Her glare burned with a thousand suns, and I couldn't have been more pleased. I smirked at her and said mockingly, "Why don't you take a picture? I _guarantee_ you it'll last longer."

The sound of her shoes stamping on the soft carpeted floor was as loud as my heartbeat ringing inside of me. By then, the mood itself was officially ruined. As Max began to put her clothes back on, I couldn't help but feel a growing familiarity between us, as if this would not be the first time we would try this, and every time it would be for a different reason but none of them the right one. Max gave me a pitying look before she left, one that read, _I know you. And I know you know nothing_. Though we tried again and again, over and over, differently and the same, none of it ever made any sense to me. But that didn't stop me from trying. All I know for certain was that she was never with anyone else, and neither was I. That was all that went unspoken between us, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. One would suppose I had to love her through all this, but love was not a word I say, not even to my mother. Not even to Zack. _Scio me nihil scire_. I know that I know nothing.


	7. Chapter 6

- Chapter 6 -

So I've been accepted to Yale. This was neither surprising nor exciting news, as fate had called it years ago in my grammar school days. Mom had been ecstatic, however, and of course she was required to throw a small shindig, as she called it, in our suite. I didn't invite any of my friends with the exception of Max. kissing in my room with the door locked until I recognized Maddie's forceful knocks. Reluctantly, I open it, and there she is in all her smiling glory. Reluctantly, I opened it, and there she was in all her smiling glory. The whole time she exchanged her congratulations with me, I noticed that she hardly makes any eye contact with Max. There was the usual eating cake, discussing random academic topics with Mr. Moseby, and the traditional toast he so enjoys but with a twist. He had raised his glass of champagne and announced, "We all know Cody was known for being quite the troublemaker back in his younger days. I, for one, often feared for my life whenever I saw him coming around." Scattered laughter here and there, but these words piqued my interest. "However, this promising young man showed so much progress in just a few years that I can personally _guarantee_ that he will change the course of history in the world."

The round of applause did not drown out the words that kept replaying in my head. Apparently, I will change the course of history in the world. As amusing and ridiculous as that sounds, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I swear my face was glowing in different hues and variations of red, though that could've been the champagne I've been drinking nonstop the entire night. I had to admit, I'm a light drinker and only eighteen, so I was surprised that Mom did not attempt to stop me from partaking in such an adult activity. I don't think she noticed, due to the festivities and joyous mood that everyone had acquired in just an hour. As people continued to linger, my eyesight started to glaze over. I can recall Max putting on her coat and telling me that it was late, and that she had to be heading home soon. I felt a small, warm kiss on the cheek, and my fingers reached out to her. Sometime later, Maddie found me wandering aimlessly outside the hall. I felt extremely heavy and tired, and she draped my arm over her shoulders as she led me to the elevator. I suppose we were outside her door when I suddenly saw how soft her lips were, though she wasn't even facing me at the time. And then, in just five seconds, I had her pinned against the wall outside her temporary room, my lips invasive and on a crash course, my hands crawling and itching for more. It was, obviously, something my body had been craving for a very long time.

Somehow, the room door swung open, and I was pushing her body forward in the dark as we stumbled over lamp stands and picture frames. Maddie was fighting back to some extent, but not in the matter I expected; she was fighting to get me closer, not to push me away. Induced with alcohol, it was easy to let go of logic and allow pure, raw, untainted emotion to take control. It was easy. The morning after, however, brought on the absolute worse headache ever. I awoke entangled in sheets and various parts of Maddie's body, not to mention the sticky sweat that had covered us both from last night. As I tried to remove myself as gently as possible without waking her up, her eyes squinted open. I made a hasty exit, reaching for a handful of clothes, and getting the hell out of there. I realized, however, I grabbed Maddie's t-shirt by mistake. It was a button-up collared shirt she used to wear back in her candy counter days, though the wisps of that memory had began fading a long time ago. She did not see me go, or if she did, she sent me off with not so much more than a simple nod of the head. I had grown far too old to remember if that meant anything anymore.

Mom peered at me wearily when I walked through the door. She was sprawled out on the couch, cradling an old family photo with a battered frame. "Cody?" she called out to me, tired. I stopped abruptly. "Where are your _clothes_?" Suddenly, her eyes were wide open as she sat upright, the picture frame abandoned with a loud clunk on the floor. _Shit_. I had momentarily forgotten I was stark naked, save for a pair of boxer shorts, and as I quickly fumbled to dive onto the floor, my mother gave me a look I had never seen before. As I tried to crawl to my bedroom, she grabbed my arm. She paused briefly, stared at my disheveled bed head, and said, "You were with Maddie, weren't you?" There was a faint air of knowing that was deeply rooted in her voice, venomous as always, as I replied, "Does it matter?" I stood up tall and broad-shouldered. Silence. I began to walk to my bedroom, to drown out the rest of her words. Though one statement unmistakably penetrated my facade bravado. "Shouldn't it, Cody?" I scoffed when she wasn't looking.

I could presume that I'd be getting another awkward visit from my father once again, to discuss my overly-erratic behavior with women. _The sex talk, _I shuddered, involuntarily. As I was changing clothes, my mother stood by the doorway. "You know this isn't right," she said to me, her arms crossed, that ratty bathrobe that clung to her plumping figure. "She was your brother's-" I whirled around as I demanded fiercely, "My brother's _what_? Zack's _what_, mom?" Her voice broke, then. "Everything to him." I pushed Maddie's shirt up to her as some kind of offering to the gods. I yelled, "_This? _Are you referring to _this_? This piece of shit is worth his _life_?" My mom looked so small then, helpless, and I couldn't help but feel the hot tremor running up my throat. I threw the shirt onto the floor, heavy-hearted, and said, "I've had her. I know that's not what you want to hear, but she was easy. She'd open her legs for anyone who's liable to give her any-" Mom wheeled back and slapped me. The stinging blow caused not even an ounce of pain, as much as it caused her. Her face was red and horrified and downright belligerent. We stopped speaking to each other after that. Or, rather, I stopped coming home.

As I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, I ran into Mr. Moseby. No, I mean literally, I _ran into _Mr. Moseby. There was a noticeable scowl on his face, though some would say that was just how his face usually looked like. He stood up, brushing the imaginary lint and dust off his gray suit, and turned to say, "Zack, what have I ever done to you personally that causes you to run about my hotel like a common derelict of the worst degree?" Zack? I froze, my wide eyes affixed on him. Mr. Moseby extended a hand, saw my expression, and halted in his tracks. "Cody," he sputtered, clearly embarrassed, for lack of better words. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…." His words trailed off. _Zack? _I stood up, ignoring his hand, and asked him with a trembling voice I did not recognize in myself, "Why did you call me that?" He frowned and looked away, muttering his apologies. As I stepped out into the blistering heat, I shaded my eyes from the sudden flash of light that blinded me. I can't recollect what I did that day. Everything seemed to pass by me as a series of one unidentifiable blur after another. What am I doing? Where am I going?

Suddenly, as mysteriously as it came, the ground went out from under me. It _shifted_, and I flew ten feet in a direction I could only describe as north. I saw rain. Rain, in the middle of July! What was going on here? I was being dragged, dragged to some place I didn't recognize. It was dark and damp, and I felt cold down to my bones. A hand lunged at me, gripping my wrist, as I pulled back screaming. I whirled around, fighting back, until I realized who had grabbed me. I froze in my tracks. _What the fuck?_ "What the fuck?" I yelled, partly because I recognized the figure standing before me, partly because I didn't understand _why_ he was standing before me, but mostly because I didn't know what else to say.

"You don't remember who I am?" he said to me, his eyes blinking back in surprise. "It's me." When I didn't respond, he placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, as if to comfort me somehow. "Drew."


	8. Chapter 7

A/N: For reference purposes, Drew is a character directly from the pilot episode of the _Suite Life of Zack and Cody_. Although he is never mentioned again in the entirety of the television series, I have included him in this story as well as its prequel (_The Not So Suite Life of Zack_). The character of Tim—Drew's brother—is of my own creation, and, therefore, owned by me.

* * *

- Chapter 7 -

"_Jesus_, Drew, what the hell were you _doing_ out there? You nearly had me killed!" I yelled, more shocked at his mere presence rather than assessing what had just happened. I honestly don't know how my mind works. Drew continued to look bewildered, as the next series of words that came out of his mouth was a rather jumbled soliloquy. "Sorry, man, I didn't know you would start running like that, but I saw your face, and I just had to get your attention somehow, and–" He stopped and took a long breath before looking up at me again. "I heard about Zack," he said, hurriedly and not any _less_ conspiratorially than he probably intended to sound, searching my eyes for any betrayal of emotion. My muscles tightened at the words, and my voice stiffened as I heard myself saying, "So you're here to offer your condolences or something?" Drew merely shook his head as his tone changed to that of grave seriousness. "No, Cody," he said, gently. "I'm here to tell you why your brother died." A frog jumped in my throat, and I held my breath.

"We used to be pretty good friends back in the day. Did you know that?" he looked toward me, expectantly. I tried to call to mind the few times I actually spoke to Zack, but my memories drew a blank on any actual event of significance. On the rare occasion that the conversation did exceed over five minutes' worth of time, that would've been ages ago when we were in middle school. I hardly remembered yesterday, let alone five or six years back. I shook my head, much to Drew's disappointment. He continued, anyway, "Zack was always a nice guy. Maybe not the easiest to get along with, but he had spirit. We met during freshmen year at the high school, even though I'm sure you remember our first encounter. I wasn't too pleasant of a character, was I?" He grinned ruefully as I gnashed my teeth sharply together. I affirmed peevishly, all too aware of his crew and that day, as I spat out, "You were kind of a dick, Drew. No offense." He laughed a little, but it was a sad kind of laugh that I didn't quite understand. He said, "I had put that all behind me when I saw him again. He seemed to, as well. But you know, he was never an open type of person. For as long as I knew him, he never seemed satisfied with who he was. Come to think of it, he was never really happy." I took this in as I took in shots of tequila. Not well. "He was very confused with his life. He was sick with love over that one girl who worked at the candy counter–"

"Maddie." My eyes narrowed, but I offered up the name as a sacrificial lamb. He raised an eyebrow at my sudden change of tone, but he went on, "Right. Maddie. He had it in his head that his life would be this empty shell without her. So he decided to prove just that. And he did." My fists were clenched tight together, as my mind reeled back to Maddie's face the night we slept together. She was so easily submissive, so willing to give her body to me, so fearful that I would… would what? _Would what, Maddie? What were you so afraid of?_ She didn't say so much as one word of protest, one fleeting cry, or even a frantic grab for the nearest phone to call for help. I had pushed her against the wall while clothes flew all around us. She didn't fight back. _Why?_ I hastily interrupted Drew, "These drugs he took, the ones that caused him to hallucinate. What were they?" Without skipping a beat, he replied, "Name one." I briefly closed my eyes, trying to imagine the pill count. The only image that appeared in my mind was Maddie's anxious eyes, shut tight, and her body relaxed in a posture my arrogant mind only depicted as desire. Without even looking at him, I said sarcastically, "So he overdosed on drugs. Brilliant deduction, Sherlock." Drew's reaction surprised me. He laughed again, only this time it sounded hollow and empty. Artificial. Deceiving. "You think it was because of the drugs?" he asked me, already shaking his head. "No, Cody. It was him. He killed himself."

I snapped, then, releasing my fury onto the outside. "Zack did not kill _himself_! Only an imbecilic moron would do that, and if you're insinuating that somehow my brother had completely lost his sense of mind–" Drew grabbed a hold of both my shoulders, as I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. He spoke, softly and evenly at the same, "He already knew he was dying, Cody. He foresaw it. He made many mistakes during the time I knew him, one that could've taken him in at an earlier age. A friend traded his life for that of Zack's. That friend is dead." I swallowed back the frog that was climbing out of my throat. As a result, my voice came out hoarse as I whispered, "What friend?" Drew released me and placed his hands into his pockets. He said in a rather offhanded way, "He was to me what Zack was to you." My questioning look prompted him to add, almost as an afterthought, "A brother. Mine." All of this information went spiraling around my brain like a ball ricocheting off each corner. So overwhelmed by all this, I somehow fell to my knees, finally feeling the rain that was beating against my back. I don't know how long I was down there, but I was completely drenched. I began to furiously beat at the pavement with my fists, water streaming down my face, though I couldn't discern between rain or was it my own tears? I was drowning in a river of my own guilt and shame and the feeling of utter helplessness.

After what seemed like hours, Drew finally extended his hand toward me. I didn't take it. I didn't deserve to. I couldn't even turn my face up, as I cried out to him, "Is that why you're here? Atonement? I'll take the punishment! Just say the word, Drew! Name your price!" His face noticeably hardened as he roughly pulled me to my feet. He said, almost in a growl, "_Atonement? Punishment? _Is that what you think this is about? For fuck's sake, Cody, you're not your brother's keeper. I forgave him because he's dead, even though it wouldn't mean a damn thing if I did or if I didn't. I forgave him. So why can't you?" He grabbed my shoulders and forced me to face him. "Why can't you, Cody?" he demanded again. "Why can't you?"

I ran. I broke into a full sprint as I raced along the unmarked streets of Boston, or wherever the hell I was, rain impairing any vision I had left of this world or the next. I could hear Drew calling after me, faint footsteps in my general direction that faded away after a few seconds. I ran until I ran myself right out of breath outside some back alleyway. And then I let the hot tears—for it was tears, I saw that now—flow freely down my face. I broke down and wept for my brother, for Zack who had been stripped down to nothing more than a stupid boy chasing fool's good in the images of my mind. I never took the time to tell him what I felt, to have the courage to say what was always left unspoken. I wept because I loved him, and I _still_ love him, and now he'll never know how much I needed him. But really, it wasn't him I couldn't forgive. It was me.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: The statement "Sometimes, the innocent are slain to make way for grander schemes" is a rephrase from the movie "Match Point." Therefore, it is not mine, and I would like to state it as such.

* * *

- Chapter 8 -

When I awoke, I instinctively shaded my eyes from the open window beside me. I subconsciously shivered. The sun was streaming through like laser beams, and it must've been at least eighty degrees. What was going on here? As I noted the blanket wrapped around me was made of coarse material, I did a quick once-over of my surroundings. The room was small and cramped, and clothes were piled on top of each other all over the place. There was hardly enough room for a wastebasket, and God knows this place needed one. I couldn't even see the floor. Where was I? I fumbled with my hands beside me to search for some measurement of time, a cell phone, an alarm clock—anything to prove I wasn't dreaming. Finding nothing, I attempted to get up until I was attacked with a sudden case of a coughing frenzy that forced me back down. A cup of water mysteriously appeared in front of my hand-covered mouth.

"Rain in summer," a dry voice spoke up, much closer than I thought it would be. I tried to twist my neck to see whom the voice belonged to. "Ever heard of it?" the voice asked me. With another failed attempt to turn around, I decidedly recited from memory, "How beautiful is the rain. After the dust and heat, in the broad and fiery street, in the narrow lane." I stopped short, not because I had forgotten the next line but because a small hand touched my face. "How beautiful is the rain," she finished. She had a look on her face that I couldn't decipher, because she was unreadable as every other person in my otherwise ridiculously pretentious life. Or maybe I was just inept at figuring out people's feelings. No intuition whatsoever. "Max," I tried to say, but I might as well have choked on the words. That emotionless stare was replaced with a steadily growing frown as she retorted with a hint of bitterness mingled in, "Are you happy now? You always wanted to know what went on in Zack's head. Are you finally satisfied, now that I found you lying unconscious in the streets?" The words registered in my eyes before it did my brain. Before I even had a chance to reply, she said, "Am I to lose you too?"

I sank slowly back into the bed, as far as I could go. The only words I could come up with for a proper response was, "Pulvis et umbra sumus." _We are dust and shadow. _Max scoffed in disgust and said, "What is that? Latin again? I really don't understand what it is with you two. It's a dead language for a reason, and it was bad enough when Zack adopted it as his native tongue. Now, you're using it as if you've used it all your life?" When I tried to explain, she brushed me off with nothing more than a simple hand. Her arms were crossed against her chest, her hair falling carelessly on her shoulders. She looked much smaller than I remembered. With some difficulty, I stood upright and reached for her guarded arms. I pulled her close to me and wrapped her around the waist. There was resistance as she struggled to pull away, but she eventually gave in. I rested my head against her stomach and said softly, "I didn't think I was necessary." She didn't move so much as an inch. At first, I thought she had turned to stone until I heard her say with the tiniest hint of surprise, "You are to me." Both of my arms tightened around her, as my voice came out grated, "Then don't lose me."

Max finally moved a hand to run it through my rumpled hair. She asked, playfully, "Does this mean you're done with this soul-searching thing?" but we both knew better than to feign ease. I answered back, "I have promises to keep." Her fingers stopped moving, her voice faint and muffled. "And miles to go before you sleep." _And miles to go before I sleep. _She let me go that day with an air of such knowing that sadness crept into the cracks of my heart. Or whatever heart I had left. I didn't think I'd ever see her again. Women don't like their men to be _shared_. It wouldn't have been right for her. Not yet. Not yet. She was my brother's, after all. Or maybe she was both of ours. Maybe this is what he wanted, what she wanted even. But then again, who am I to question the validity of this cursed life?

As I trudged through the streets of Boston, I watched every car pass by me with a growing remorse. I thought back to my attempted suicide and wondered how to go about my life now. It all seemed pointless. I'll be graduating any day now, and as soon as I have that diploma rolled up in my hand, I'll be taking the first plane out of here. And then what? Yale seemed so far away, not merely in distance but in my mind as well. I couldn't imagine any foreseeable future anymore. _What the hell is wrong with me_? I used to be the kind of kid every parent wanted. To be honest, in retrospect, my brother must've paled in comparison. I never realized before how shortsighted my perception was. And how shortsighted his limitations were. I pushed that thought away and as I reached the front steps of the Tipton, I took a deep breath before reaching for the door at the same time a familiar voice called out to me, "I've been wondering when you were going to show up here." I briefly shut my eyes, my lips pursed into a thin line, as I said, "I thought we were past all these formalities." Drew smiled rather evenly, the first genuine smile I've seen from anyone in a long time. He replied with a shrug, "To err is human."

I glanced over him through the door at Norman the doorman, but Drew gestured to the local park across the street. I suppose Mom would have to wait for the moment. We sat side-by-side on a bench, and I began to recall the first and last encounter I had with Drew. This guy was the loudest, most arrogant middle school student I had ever been borne witness to. Even thinking about him now made my blood boil and my fists tighten. But then again, without him, I would've never met Max. That is, Zack and I would've never met her, and that would've been a sorry shame, which is why I didn't immediately decline the cigarette he offered me. Between inhales, I said in a low voice, "I'm sorry about your brother. I can understand how you feel, after all." It wasn't an apology as much as it was an exchange of one grieving blood to another. I was relieved that Drew understood, that he stared hard into the ground before he said finally and quietly, "I knew he was going to die, you know." I exhaled a cloud of smoke and said nothing. He continued, as if he wasn't only speaking to me, "I used to pray and cry and tear myself apart over it. I was sick with grief, the way you are now. But the answers, they never came quite the way I wanted them to." He turned to me with a look of sincerity and spoke carefully, "Incidentally, it turns out that shit happens the way it always happens."

"What?" I said, my voice breaking and trembling and deathly afraid of what he would say. He put that same recognizable hand on my shoulder and replied, "Sometimes, the innocent are slain to make way for grander schemes." We parted ways soon after, but not before Drew gave me one last smile. It was halfhearted and worn down, and I didn't smile back. I couldn't. Something inside of me froze or snapped or broke off, I wasn't sure which. I merely sat on the bench for what seemed like days. Weeks, even., though I couldn't differentiate between dawn and dusk; I couldn't move. All I saw in front of me was Zack dying over and over and over again. He was bleeding from every orifice of his body. _Why_? I suddenly fell forward on my knees and began to pound the pavement with clenched fists. "Why?" I screamed. "Why, why, why, why?" I could feel the blood trickling from my knuckles and tears blurring my vision, but I kept on screaming and pounding. "Why, why, why?" Someone grabbed a hold of my waist with small arms. "Cody!" the voice cried alongside my own. "Please, Cody!" it begged, a head nuzzling into my back.

_"It was a car accident."_  
_"Do you mean Zack was driving under the influence?"_  
_"Not exactly. It was more like the other way around. Zack never saw it coming."_  
_"Your brother saved him?"_  
_"More or less."_  
_"But Zack's dead. They're both dead, in fact."_  
_"I don't suppose it matters anymore, who saved who. It was an exchange of a life for a life."_  
_"What, Tim's life for that of Zack's?"_  
_"No, Cody. Zack's life for yours."_  
_"I don't understand."_  
_"Sometimes, the innocent are slain to make way for grander schemes."_

"Why?" my pitched voice resonated in the empty park of trees and shadows. "Why, why, why?"


	10. Chapter 9

- Chapter 9 -

It must've been close to midnight when London wrapped her arms tightly around my abdomen. I'm sure Mom had something to do with her combing the city trying to find me. With her extensive resources, I doubt it was a challenging task. She led me to where her stretch limousine was waiting, all the while giving me sidelong steady glances. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't even really fully concentrated on the situation at hand. The thoughts scurrying through my head were too loud and abrasive for anything else to penetrate through. Why is it that the most difficult of questions to answer start off with _why_? Even that question, I could never even dream up a proper explanation. A correct explanation. How did it all turn out this way?

"Cody," a voice broke through the thick walls around me. "What's this all about?" I hesitated briefly, turning over the question in my head. _What's this all about_? What _is_ this all about? The general phrasing struck me as something direct and forceful. It felt… relieving, somewhat. I laughed aloud, "It's about time someone put it so damn plainly, for once!" There was a brief, shocked pause. Even _I_ was shocked. Considering that London and I were not friends, not even remotely _friendly_ on a day-to-day basis, that thought alone was enough for me to swallow back my words. I didn't want her to diagnose me with some kind of bipolar disorder, though it probably wouldn't come as a big shock to anyone if I did happen to have it. For a minute, London appeared to have no reaction whatsoever. That is, before I felt the smallest hand of my life place itself on top of my own. She asked serenely, "What are you so afraid of?" I stared out the tinted window and seeing nothing, I mumbled under my breath, "It's not me you should be asking." Her grip neither tightened nor loosened; it wasn't even a grip to begin with. She sighed, and by the sound of shifting cloth, I knew she had averted her eyes to something else.

I wriggled my hand out from underneath hers and jammed it into my pocket. I'm not afraid of anything, when will people understand that? Kids strive their whole lives for a chance like mine, an opportunity to be accepted and attend a university as prestigious as Yale, while the majority of the population will never see past their blue-collar salaries and junior college credits. Statistically speaking, I mean. Still, the question scared me a little. I understand _how_. I don't just get _why_. I would've said so, but London wouldn't exactly be inclined to listen. She was here on instruction and not of free will. That alone shouldn't warrant any explanation. If _I_ couldn't understand, how could I expect _her_ to? Don't get me wrong here, though. I'm not making a cheap shot at her intelligence, or any lack thereof. She never played a significant role in my life, and I doubt Zack really had anything to do with her. As if she read my thoughts, London suddenly spoke up in a small voice, "Zack used to come by my dorm room, you know. He claimed it was for community service." By my sharp intake of breath, she must've realized that I was not even remotely aware of any type of community service. I mean, come on. _Community service? Zack?_

With a small laugh, she continued, "It wasn't really for that reason, obviously. Most of the time, Zack would straighten my room or just stand around. It made me nervous the first few times, but after a while it started to become routine." I found a hoarse voice and roughly cut in, "He used to come to your _dorm_?" I was facing her then, my eyes widened and deeply set. London twirled a strand of her long hair. She said rather evenly, "We used to talk about a lot of things. It wasn't much consolation for me, but I saw him delving deeper and deeper into this world that I couldn't pull him out of." I clasped my trembling hands together and heard myself ask in an equally trembling voice, "What kind of things?" She leaned in toward the window. For a minute, it seemed as though she didn't hear my question. Or she didn't want to. As I opened my mouth to repeat it, she answered distantly, "Oh, well, does it matter?" I slumped back into my seat, dejected. By the flippant carelessness of her tone, apparently not.

"Maddie," I scoffed in a scornful manner. London merely shrugged and offered no further answers. At least, it looked like she shrugged. It was difficult to tell in the darkness of a tinted limousine. I tried to divert my thoughts to something more pleasant, something more worthwhile. Yale's collegiate buildings emerged into my mind, and I desperately tried to drift away into textbooks and course loads. This was really my own method of escape, though clearly it wasn't an efficient one. Why was it that Zack talked to everyone, even London of all people, but me? How could he have confided in outsiders, essentially strangers when it came right down to it, but not to his own kin? "You two must've been very close," I suddenly said aloud. I was well aware that my tone sounded sarcastic and biting, but if London knew, she feigned ignorance. She shifted in her seat, however, and I knew my suspicions were confirmed. I shook my head and snarled, "Every girl in the whole damn world. Every last one of them. Where was I in all of this?" London didn't have an answer, but I didn't really expect her to, anyhow.

When we arrived at the Tipton, I stormed out of the limousine in a childish fashion. Like it mattered anymore, how I behaved, right? As I took the elevator up while ignoring Mr. Moseby's disapproving glances and the strange expression on Esteban's face, the thoughts continued to pour endlessly into my heavy head. _London, Zack? Her, too? First Max, then Maddie, even Drew. Now this? _I unlocked the door and found the suite empty. Better for me, I suppose. My bedroom didn't change much in my absence, though I didn't expect it to. I generally kept it clean and orderly, whereas Zack's idea of clean was to separate piles of dirty clothes from the relatively sanitary. I sank into my mattress and buried my head in hands. _Sometimes, the innocent are slain to make way for grander schemes. _I knew what it meant, even before Drew tried in vain attempt to explain it to me. Evidently, Zack died for a purpose, as determined by some higher power; there was a reason somewhere in the shadows that justified his death. Logically, this made no sense. It was the drugs that did him in, isn't that right? The alcohol, the parties, and his constantly wandering mind. He could barely differentiate between night and day, so really, I shouldn't have expected him to live forever. And I didn't. And he didn't live long enough to tell me he told me so.

What bothered me the most was the fact that if Zack did truly die for a reason, it wasn't for me. It was for someone who was completely unrelated to either of us. Who the hell was Tim, anyway? What made him so special, so endearing, that made Zack sacrifice his entire life? I understood that Tim saved Zack. But did that really compel Zack to turn around and do the same? I didn't believe in equivalent exchange, then or now. The world was everything but equivalent. It gives and takes away in accordance to its own rules; there's not one single thing fair about that. I've lived too long to expect any type of fairness in this lifetime or the next. My thoughts ran back to Drew. He was so nonchalant about his own brother, his tone cold and detached as if he were telling a story that had nothing to do with him. Whereas I, on the other hand, am struggling every day just to survive. I'm not even trying to get by or get through this life anymore. My only priority is to stay awake, and even that might not be enough incentive for me to hang on.

Someone once told me at Zack's funeral, "Fear death, but let it not live within you. Trust that your brother is in a better place, and you will find peace." For all I know, Zack may be in a better place.

But I'm not.


End file.
